by Lisa Tucker
They’d been married for only a year or so when David admitted that what had happened with Joshua had changed him from a person who was usually optimistic to a person who feared the worst. Kyra had already discovered how true this was. If she was ten minutes late from work, her husband called her cell; if she dropped the soap and he heard the thump in the shower, her husband came in to check on her; if she got a cold or cut her hand or had a bruise she couldn’t account for, he begged her to go to the doctor. He even worried that he was oppressing her with all his worries. “Ironic, I know,” he said. “I wish I could relax about all of this.”
It was all Courtney’s fault, that much Kyra knew. Although David’s ex-wife had not been found guilty of a crime, she was responsible for what had happened to the baby. And the older Kyra got, the more she blamed this woman she’d never met for David’s anxieties and even for something that seemed to be missing from her own life, something she couldn’t put her finger on. Indeed, by the time Kyra was thirty-two, she actively hated Courtney, especially when she thought about the pictures of Courtney and David and their child. Especially when she imagined what David must have been like, back when he trusted that he could have a family of his own.
EIGHT
Although Sandra didn’t like cell phones—the buttons were too small for her arthritic fingers; she felt like she couldn’t hear the person on the other end unless she sat very still, with the earpiece glued to her ear—she always had her cell with her, stashed in the pocket of her purse next to her medicines. It was convenient when someone at work needed her, but the real reason she carried it was to placate her son, who had given her several long lectures about the dangers of going without a phone. She knew he was just worried, so she didn’t remind him that somehow the human race had survived before the invention of all these annoying devices.
It was a little after three o’clock; she was still on her former daughter-in-law’s porch, dialing the number of the software company where Courtney worked. The receptionist told her Courtney wasn’t there, which she expected, but she also added that Courtney had left the company after an extended sick leave. “She’s sick?” Sandra said—or shouted. She was never sure how loud she had to be. The phone was tiny, way too small for her head. If the earpiece was on her ear, the mouthpiece didn’t come past her cheek.
“I believe so,” the receptionist said. “All I know is that she resigned a few months ago.”
A few months ago? Why hadn’t she mentioned this to Sandra? And if she was unemployed—and possibly sick—why wasn’t she home? Sandra had knocked a half dozen times and rung Courtney’s home phone a half dozen more, even though it was such a discouraging sound, the bright ringing of the phone echoing in the deserted house.
Sandra had given her cell phone number to Courtney reflexively, in case her former daughter-in-law had an emergency; however, she’d never thought to ask Courtney for hers. Why would she need that? They talked only once or twice every few months, usually on a Sunday afternoon, when both of them were puttering around their houses. They talked about what they’d planted in their gardens or new recipes they’d tried, books they found interesting or TV shows they were following. Courtney used to ask about David, but after he married Kyra, her questions became much less frequent, and soon after he had Michael, she stopped asking all together. Sandra figured her former daughter-in-law had finally accepted what she’d been telling Courtney since she got out of the hospital: that David wasn’t angry with her; he’d just moved on with his own life.
That this wasn’t exactly true never stopped Sandra from saying it. The girl desperately needed to believe that David had forgiven her, and Sandra figured maybe he had forgiven her somewhere deep in his heart. Certainly, it didn’t seem possible that her son would never forgive his ex-wife. Holding on to anger like that couldn’t be good for David. And he didn’t even know Courtney anymore, if he ever had; they’d been so young. Otherwise, how could he be so convinced that Courtney had taken Michael?
David had promised to call after he talked to the police. He kept his promise, but Sandra couldn’t help noticing how curt he sounded, like calling his mother was nothing but a task on a long to-do list. At least he had some relatively good news. The detective in charge felt sure it was someone the family knew, and whoever this person was, their intention wasn’t to harm Michael.
At first Sandra didn’t understand how this detective could be sure of that, though she was immensely relieved, and even more so when David told her a note had been left.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Sandra said.
“They just found it in the back of the house, slipped under a rock by the porch steps.” He paused. “It says that Michael is fine and he’ll be back in a day or two.”
She took a breath. “Well, that’s encouraging, isn’t it?”
“Come on, Mom. We’re dealing with a lunatic who stole a child from his own backyard. Why should we trust what she says?”
“It’s a woman?”
“One of the police officers said the handwriting looks female.”
“But it doesn’t look like Courtney’s handwriting, does it?”
“I don’t know.” He sounded distracted. “The police are going to check that. They’re also going to run fingerprints.”
A lifetime ago, Courtney had been fingerprinted. Though the charges had been dropped, David was obviously assuming they still had the fingerprints on file somewhere. Sandra had no idea if that was true. She knew very little about how the police worked other than what she’d seen on television.
She watched someone get out of a truck across the street. It was Courtney’s neighbor, Rita, a friendly woman and quite the talker. Sandra waved with her free hand and pointed at the cell phone, and thankfully, Rita headed in the direction of her own porch.
David was still talking about the letter. The woman who wrote it said to think of her as a babysitter. She also wrote that she loved Michael. She claimed she was part of his family and just wanted to get to know him.
Sandra swallowed hard. The words sounded familiar. She remembered when Courtney had said something similar to this. But it was almost six years ago, right after Michael was born. She wanted to know if David would allow her to just meet the baby. “I won’t even touch him,” she said, which broke Sandra’s heart. “I just want to see if he looks like . . .”
Sandra had said no, because she knew David would say no. But she’d given Courtney a photograph of little Michael, dressed in a sweet yellow-and-white romper, asleep in his bouncy seat. Courtney had thanked her; neither of them had mentioned the resemblance.
The wooden slats of the porch swing were digging into Sandra’s back. After she said good-bye to David, she stood up and headed down the walk. There was no point in staying here; the police would be arriving soon enough. Obviously, they’d have to question Courtney. At this point, even Sandra couldn’t be a hundred percent positive that she hadn’t done it, though it was so hard to fathom that sad girl doing something like this, after she’d worked so hard to have an almost normal life.
When Sandra was back in the car, she let herself cry, but only a little. She had to be there for her son—there was no time for a big boo hoo.
She’d just merged onto the highway when she considered telling David’s father what was going on. If only she could tell Ray and have him offer to help in any way he could. If only Ray would be a decent man and a decent father for once in his life. But even the thought of turning to Ray made her realize how desperate she was. Yes, she wished she had someone with her right now, but Ray was the last person to call in a crisis. He’d never had much sympathy for other people’s problems, mainly, Sandra thought, because he’d had so few problems of his own. He rarely even got sick, which allowed him to continue with his cruel belief that sick people were weak. This, in particular, had always infuriated Sandra, who, after all, knew a heck of a lot more
about sick people than Ray ever would.
In a way, her ex-husband had led a charmed life. Though the things he did echoed forever in the lives of the people around him, he himself seemed to remain forever untouched. It was unfair, yet Sandra had given up wishing the world would teach Ray a lesson. The truth was the only people who needed the world to teach them a lesson were people who hadn’t been paying attention to the lessons their lives had already given them. People like Ray, whose inability to pay attention had cost him two wives—Peggy, the woman he’d married after Sandra, had left him, too—and most important, his son.
Of course she never regretted marrying him. She couldn’t, because the marriage had given her David. But in every other respect, getting together with Ray was proof of how stupid she’d been. Her high school boyfriend and first love had escaped to Canada when he got drafted. By the time Ray came along, she was twenty-one and finished with her nursing degree. Most of her friends were either engaged or already married. And Ray was undeniably handsome; people said he looked like that actor Christopher Plummer. He seemed incredibly sophisticated because he’d been to South America, or was it because he knew how to make martinis?
She’d been married for three years when she had her baby, more than enough time to discover that marriage was no remedy for loneliness. Having a baby wasn’t, either, though little David could be downright good company at times. In fact, all these years later, she still remembered what an excellent companion her baby had proved to be during the swimming competitions of the Summer Olympics. She’d watched the games on the old-fashioned rabbit-ears television while five-month-old David sat on the rug, surrounded by pillows, chewing on his rattles. She was on the floor with him, so she could retrieve the rattles when he dropped them. He was too young to crawl or even scoot yet. She held his hands together to clap every time Mark Spitz broke another record. Her baby grinned and laughed, and she pointed at the screen and told him, “Maybe that will be you someday!”
Sandra had once dreamed of being an Olympic swimmer herself. Every summer when she was a kid, she’d spent her days in the water, swimming back and forth, while her little brother, Beau, timed her with the old railroad pocket watch their uncle had given them. She got faster and faster, but she could never catch Debbie Rendell, the star of their local swim team. By the time she was a teenager, she’d stopped going to the pool to swim, though she still went to sun herself with her friends. They would get into the water only when they were very hot, and then only up to their chests, so they wouldn’t have to put on swimming caps and flatten their hair.
When Ray came home, they were holding the ceremony after Mark Spitz won the 100-meter freestyle. She greeted him, and nodded at the television, so he would know what was going on. It was all so thrilling.
“You know I don’t like sports,” Ray muttered, and walked out of the room.
The fact that she considered following him shows how foolish she was. Mark Spitz had set world records in every race. He was the greatest athlete of all time, as the newscasters kept saying. She wasn’t going to walk out on an American making history in hopes of getting a smile of approval from Ray.
When the program was over, she rocked David and put him to bed. Finally, she went to the kitchen, where her husband was sitting at the table, going through the receipts in his briefcase.
As often happened, she found herself suddenly feeling sorry for him. He looked tired, and he was undoubtedly feeling neglected. She asked if he’d had dinner on the road. When he said no, she got out the ham and Swiss and started piling it on the rye bread, the way Ray liked it, with tomatoes on top. She could feel him watching her, and so she made small talk about the day, nothing about the Olympics, probably some cute thing that happened with David.
He didn’t say anything until she set the sandwich in front of him; then he said, “I don’t want that.” He even crossed his arms and rolled his lips together, as if his hands might move against his will and force the sandwich into his mouth.
It was after nine. The baby had gotten up at five-thirty in the morning and napped for only forty-five minutes all day. “I thought you were hungry,” she said, as evenly as she could manage.
“I am. However, the last time I checked, a sandwich is not dinner.”
She was twenty-four years old, which was considered a full-grown adult back then. She had a child and a mortgage and a husband, same as most of her friends. And yes, she knew that the adult thing to do would be to cook something he liked and wrap up the sandwich so he could have it tomorrow for lunch. If he hadn’t said “the last time I checked,” she might have been able to do it, despite how tired she was. But he sounded so damned smug, and he looked positively imperial sitting there, looking down on the poor rejected sandwich.
So she picked up the plate and walked across the kitchen and dumped not only the sandwich but also the plate into the garbage. She heard the ceramic dish snap in half as it hit the side of the metal can.
Her husband mumbled something to the effect that she was nuts. She wasn’t really listening. She already knew she was going to regret what she’d done. It was a nice plate.
NINE
If you have been happily married for a few years, and you are over thirty, the people around you will often hint—or even say—that you don’t have much time left to make The Decision™. This was the situation in which Kyra found herself seven years ago when she created a Word file, Pro and Con For You Know What. She planned to keep a journal of her thoughts and record her daily mood (1 for Yes, −1 for No, and 0 for Unsure) for a full year. Of course she knew the final result would be a negative number, possibly three digits, maybe even −365. She was positive she didn’t want a baby. This was purely a test—and Kyra liked tests; she wrote them for a living—to prove conclusively what she already knew.
The biggest argument against having children was always her husband’s feelings, but right after that came her own guilt about what had happened with Amy. Most days, it was easy to record a −1 in the journal and go back to her life. Her first positive number came about two weeks into her test, when she was on the bus, coming home from work. She was pushing her way down the aisle, trying to find a seat, when she saw a baby settled on his mother’s lap. Such an ordinary scene, but this time, she was stopped in her tracks; she couldn’t even make her lips form the polite words “how cute.” She just stared, like the baby was a messenger from another world, come to tell her—what? Don’t forget to have one of me. You know you want to. Or even, it’s wrong to lie to yourself.
She grudgingly wrote a 1 in the journal that day, though she knew the baby messenger was wrong. She most certainly did not know that she wanted one of his kind. And to her relief, the test continued to prove her right. After keeping score for two months, there were far more −1s than 1s. Her tally had been negative the first week and the first month and it had remained negative so far. Good.
Most of the arguments she wrote in the journal were also against the idea. Beyond the big issues, she had a lot of pragmatic reasons why having a baby would be bad:
1.They’d have to move, and she loved their apartment. They’d probably have to leave the city to afford a bigger place. She wasn’t a suburbs-type person.
2.They’d have to buy all that baby stuff: a crib, a stroller, a changing table, a car seat, a rocker, clothes, toys, etc, etc. It would be so expensive, and so daunting to deal with now that she’d just been promoted.
3.She would gain a lot of weight. What if she couldn’t lose it later? What if she ended up fat for life?
4.She might die. It was unlikely, but not impossible. It would be so much better if it were impossible.
5.She was probably infertile anyway. She had no evidence to support this, except for karma. If karma existed, she would never be able to have her own baby.
Unfortunately, number five was one thing she couldn’t just write down and dismiss. She
spent a disturbing amount of time worrying about being infertile—disturbing because why did she care? Several pages of her Word document had nothing but the question: “What if I can’t have a baby?” She estimated that at least half of her 1s were based on nothing other than this fear. Finally she decided to make an appointment with her gynecologist. He ran some blood tests first. A week later, he gave her a thorough exam, and told her that though he couldn’t be sure, everything looked to be in working order.
“No reason not to start trying,” he said. “You might be pregnant before you know it.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But I’m not planning to get pregnant.”
“What?” He was washing his hands, not really paying attention.
“People always want what they can’t have.” She was still in the paper dress, but she was sitting up and relatively comfortable. She lifted her finger to emphasize her point. “But if I can have it, then I don’t have to want it, right?”
“True,” he said, and laughed. “Seriously though, you should start trying soon. You’re thirty-two. I’m sure you know that fertility declines sharply in a woman’s thirties, and by the time she’s forty, she—”
“I know, but I don’t want children. I feel so much surer of that now. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome?” the doctor said. He looked thoroughly confused, but Kyra was too happy to care. Since it was possible to have a child, she wouldn’t have to want one anymore. She marveled at how simple it was.
It was Friday night, her favorite night of the week to be with her husband, and, she noted, as she walked in the door around six, another reason not to have a baby. After teaching all week, David was usually in a fabulous mood, and this Friday was no exception. He was already home, and he’d brought steaks and asparagus and bread and a bottle of Kyra’s favorite Chablis.